Doors Unlocked
by TheOtherShin
Summary: Loosely based off Neil Hilborn's poem "OCD". Every day, all day, Midorima hears voices in his head; repetitive ticks and obsessions that have him always thinking 'Did I lock the door yet? Did I turn the lights off yet? ' Until Takao, a new student in his class, catches his eye, and becomes the first beautiful thing he gets stuck on. But what happens when Takao's patience runs out?
1. Part I

There had always been muttering in his head, little ticks and obsessions that had Midorima lying in bed thinking '_Did I lock the door yet? Did I turn the lights off yet? Did I lock the door yet? Did I brush my teeth yet? Did I lock the door yet?_' every night. Bandaging his fingers so dirt and germs and _air_ couldn't touch them; couldn't damage or flaw the one weapon he had honed and maintained, that made everything else suddenly a competition of perfection. Suddenly, fingernails perfectly filed down to the millimeter on his left hand wasn't enough anymore; his hair had to be perfectly parted, not a section, not even a single green strand out of place. His glasses had to be perfectly polished, without a smudge or even a puff of breath obscuring their crystal clarity. When he tied his shoelaces in the morning, he had to start with the left one, and put that foot out his door first when he left his home, painstakingly stepping over and around every crack in the sidewalk.

It took him so long to get to school that way that he typically missed the first two bells. It was suggested to him that he bike to school, but then there was no escaping the cracks, no avoiding that he sometimes started down the sidewalk with his right foot first, and when he got his meticulously tied shoelace tangled around one of the pedals, flipping the bicycle over on top of himself, he promptly gave up on that.

When he saw Takao, all the voices in his head went quiet. He was infuriated by how boisterous and careless the snickering idiot appeared to be, but despite himself, all he could think about - all he could _obsess _over - was the symmetrical curtains of black hair, the one little perfect flaw of a stray eyelash, somehow beautifully contrasting with his cheek. He caught himself staring at him in class, for exactly eight seconds at a time, watching the slant of his slender eyebrows and the squint of his silvery eyes, the curl of his smirking lips. He just _had_ to talk to him….much as he dragged his feet managing that.

When they bumped into one another in the hallway, before the fool could start jabbering, Midorima got in the first words.

"Come with me after practice."That didn't sound right, not specific enough, so he asked again, "Do you want to get something to eat after basketball practice?" That was too long, too wordy; still not right.

He must have tried six different variations of the same question, in about thirty seconds. Takao had agreed after the third time, but then just waited for him to find a proposition that sounded perfect. He did think he saw the idiot laughing at him gleefully behind those pale, narrow eyes, but he didn't do so out loud until he was finished, following the chortle up with a repetition of his acceptance. The way his mouth edged up on the sides and his teeth flashed when he said "Yes," had Midorima actually asking him to say it again...five more times. Takao seemed to think this was terribly funny, but did as he asked nonetheless.

When they went to dinner together, Midorima spent more time arranging his silverware, folding his napkin, and sorting his food by color and then size than he did actually eating...or talking to the man across the table from him. Takao chatted enough for the both of them, laughing loudly at his own jokes and slapping the table in his mirth, but he also watched what Midorima did with interest. Those eyes, those sharp, ever-moving eyes, darting from his pile of rice with all the vegetables carefully picked out to his face and back. Those bird-of-prey eyes were enough to drag Midorima's own up from his plate, for him to notice that his food was organized enough, and remember to at least put some of it in his mouth.

When they left the restaurant, Takao waited for him to decide which foot he should lead with when walking away from the table, slowed his pace beside him so he could step only on the red tiles on the floor, and moved to the side so he could open the door with his right hand, instead of his bandaged left. He didn't ask why these things had to happen, just accommodated for them with patient, amused silence; giggling annoyingly but not questioning.

Walking home, Takao stopped with him at every crack in the sidewalk, waiting for Midorima to decide a path around them before going on. It took them two hours to get to Midorima's house, and then Takao still had to walk all the way home himself, but he said nothing except a cheery "See ya tomorrow, Shin-chan!" before heading his own way, whistling a tune that looped unevenly, wonderfully, every three and a half bars.

A tune that stayed in Midorima's head - replacing the muttering of '_Did I fold my socks yet? Did I wash my hands yet?'_ - for several days.

They had about twelve first kisses in a row, a week later. None of them felt quite right, so Midorima re-did them to compensate for the little mistakes; making it perfect. Only when he drew away for the umteenth time to see those expressive eyes dancing with laughter and teasing fondness did their noses bumping, lips not quite lining up, not bother him so much anymore. He still tried it again four more times, just to be sure, and Takao didn't ask, didn't complain; giving him the same contact, the same angle with those soft, smirking lips every time.

He loved it. The quirks and ticks that drove everyone insane; it was plain to see that Takao adored them. He took Midorima to school, and just about everywhere else, by rickshaw. On the street, avoiding every crack on the sidewalk - and he did complain and pant dramatically with exhaustion, but continued to do so regardless. He zipped his lips when Midorima took his fifteen minutes in the morning to listen to the day's horoscope, let him kiss him goodbye sixteen times, sometimes more. He stood on his right side instead of his left to hold his unbandaged hand when they walked together, sometimes refraining from holding either if the day's lucky item was particularly large. But he still curled his fingers just slightly - in the way that Midorima imitated on top of his desk - as if lacing their fingers together in his mind.

Whenever he came over, he was always careful to leave things where they were, because if he so much as knocked over a book, Midorima would spend the next half an hour rearranging the whole shelf, until it was to his liking; refusing Takao's help if he offered it, saying simply that he had to make it perfect. So Takao would sit beside him, a hand lazily resting on his shoulder or thigh, and watch him alphabetize the volumes by author, then by title, and then group them together by genre or thickness. And when he was satisfied, and stood back to admire his handiwork, Takao would smile with him, or just shake his head and snicker to himself, but say nothing. He didn't even show the flash of offense Midorima expected, when he caught him spraying down everything he'd touched with disinfectant when he left. Because he knew the only thing he touched that Midorima didn't immediately wash free of him afterwards was Midorima himself.

When he spent the night, he commented with a smirk that he felt safe in Midorima's home, because he'd watched him lock the door at least a dozen times, testing the handle each time to see if it budged even an inch. He'd gotten up and moved from every place they sat or lay to make out, because Midorima said the couch or the bed or the kitchen counter weren't right, so they ended up sprawled on the floor, endlessly rehearsing kisses, perfecting every touch. And Takao corrected himself without a word when Midorima said he'd moved too fast, used too many fingers, or should have circled that place counterclockwise instead. But certain things he let slide, and Takao noticed. Noticed that he didn't count the seconds between slow kisses under his breath, didn't check to make sure they were three squares from the edge of the carpet, didn't stop to take his glasses off and clean them on his shirt when they misted up with their shared breath. Eventually, they did move to the bed, and Takao laid spread-eagled on it and closed his eyes as Midorima obsessively flicked the lights on and off, over and over, a grin spreading on his face as familiar laughter bubbled in his throat. He said he was imagining days and nights passing before him rapidly, imagining the years they would spend together.

When Takao said he loved him, his mouth turned up at the corners, like when he'd said "Yes," to the repeated question, the first question, months and months ago. And, like then, Midorima asked him to say it again, and again, until his lover was giggling too much to be articulate anymore, rolling on the floor where they had kissed and touched without Midorima washing his hands or changing his shirt afterwards. And when Midorima leaned over him to capture those upturned lips stretched tight with laughter, he let Takao take off his glasses and press their mouths together harder, imperfectly, messily; let his hands rake through his hair, messing up all the neatly combed strands, let his tongue into his mouth without thinking of toothpaste and mouthwash. He let his hands skim down his chest, not caring if they were in sync or used all the fingers, or slipped under his shirt.

When they made love for the first time, he didn't disinfect the sheets.

He couldn't stop tracing the fluid curve, the shallow _M_ of Takao's lips, on his pillow beside him at night, on the edge of the basketball before he made a shot, on those perfect lips themselves. He couldn't stop thinking of how he hooked his index finger in the back of his shoe as he slipped it on, how he opened doors like he was giving a handshake.

But some mornings, he stopped curling his fingers just slightly at his side, as if lacing their fingers together in his mind. He left after one imperfect goodbye kiss, leaving fifteen unfinished ones, his silvery eyes no longer dancing with amusement. He kept walking when Midorima stopped at the cracks in the sidewalk, muttering that he was going to make them late. When he said he loved him, he said it once, and his mouth was a straight line.

He stopped spending the night, stopped moving when the place they were making out wasn't right, stopped sitting by Midorima's side when he rearranged the bookshelf; the hand resting on his shoulder or thigh absent. He said it was taking up too much of his time, that all the ticks and habits were just silly worries, and he said it without the familiar laughter in his throat.

Eventually, when even walking a few steps ahead of Midorima made Takao an hour late for a job interview, he sighed and said that it had all been a mistake, that he shouldn't have let him get so attached. Midorima didn't ask him to say it again, and he didn't, but the message was clear. They stopped walking home together. Midorima stopped looking at him for eight seconds at a time in class, stopped tracing the shape of his lips on his pillow, and the basketball before he took a shot. The last time he did, his hand shook so badly that he missed.

Two weeks later, he saw Takao walking down the hall with a girl. Heard his bubbling laughter at one his own jokes, saw his fingers curled just slightly, laced together with hers on her left side. Saw the shallow, curving _M_ of his lips, and knew he had been kissing her. Couldn't breathe, because she didn't care if it was perfect. She wouldn't ask him to say it again, when he said he loved her, or turn the lights on and off while he lay grinning in her bed, imagining days and nights flying by; the years they would spend together. She wouldn't spray everything he touched down with disinfectant, except herself, and it wouldn't matter. None of it would matter.

He walked home in under thirty minutes, passing right over the cracks in the sidewalk. Couldn't see them anyway, with how his vision blurred, and didn't polish the lenses of his glasses when they spotted with tears. His hands, both unbandaged, shook too badly to hold today's lucky item, and it took a moment to remember he hadn't brought it with him anyway. He couldn't hear voices, he couldn't hear questions and ticks, all that filled his head was the repeated statement, "I love you, Shin-chan," as many times as he wanted to hear it, as many times as he needed to hear it to make it perfect…and a cheery, whistling tune that looped unevenly, every three and a half bars.

He couldn't stand it, he just wanted to see those laughing silver eyes and symmetrical curtains of black hair, the eyelash a perfect little flaw on his cheek. He wanted to tell him he loved him a hundred times, and hear it back after the third one. He wanted his silent, amused patience, his lips upturned and tight with laughter, his hands touching him out of sync, with all the fingers.

When he stumbled inside, he left the door unlocked.

When he collapsed on his bed, he left the lights on.

-_Shinsun_


	2. Part II

((_...Because I couldn't just leave it like that, here's part two; a sort of epilogue for all your happy ending needs.))_

Frustrated, Midorima hit the "play" button again on his phone, having missed every single word his horoscope station had cheerily announced in his ear. It had all been a blur of white noise, just like every day these past few weeks. He couldn't remember his compatibility, his rank, or his lucky item of the day; how hard was it to just listen to a few short sentences?

Well...he knew why it was so difficult. The only thing that would stay in his mind, maddeningly on loop, was an endless procession of every goddamn word Takao had ever said to him. Like a scratched record always coming back to the same verse in a song, the constant refreshing images of his perfectly imperfect face chased each other forever whenever he closed his eyes. It had been a month, a whole month, since Takao had broken up with him, but he couldn't move on, and didn't even really try anymore. It was futile, because he _always _thought of him. Even when he tried to purposely distract himself, or tried to drown it out with the usual '_Did I make the bed yet? Did I fold my clothes yet?'_, his mind always circled right back to the music of his laughter, the shimmer of his piercing silver eyes.

Lately...the obsessive reminders had gotten a little pathetic. '_Did I take my shoes off yet?'_ They were right there on his feet; did he really need to ask that? '_Did I even _close _the door yet?'_ Forget about locking it; sometimes he even forgot to shut the stupid thing behind him when he walked in. And he knew why….he wanted Takao back so bad, some part of him must have thought if he left the doors wide open he might somehow drift in like a welcome breeze, drawn by the aching magnetic pull that had been Midorima's heart as of late.

He could hear the familiar chirpy voice in his ears, reminding him again what today's horoscope was….but the words slid right past as straight gibberish, and, giving up, he pulled the earbuds out with a sharp jerk at their cord, folding his arms on his knees and resting his chin on them. He'd done this a lot lately; just sat on the front steps for hours at a time, as if waiting for something...or someone. He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten; his stomach always felt empty even if he could manage to choke something down, and all food tasted like sand. He couldn't remember the last time he'd brushed his hair, and it hung in his face, stringy and unkempt in front of the clouded, dirty lenses of his glasses.

He didn't give a damn.

He hadn't slept in three days. He only kept track so precisely because the last time he had, Takao had slunk into his dreams. The little curl of his smile, the sharp angle of his jaw...the way his fingers turned into claws when he messed up his hair - which he only did because he knew it would bother Midorima, and that he would spend the next twenty minutes smoothing it back down. ...He'd woken up sobbing into his pillow, and had been in tears even before the dream was over, if the wetness all the way down his chin was any indication.

Getting to his feet with a ragged sigh, he turned and trudged inside, remembering to kick the door shut behind him; the click somehow annoying. Standing in the hallway, his hands gradually clenched into fists, nails he hadn't clipped or filed in weeks biting into his palms even as he bit his own lip, hard enough to draw blood. He squeezed his eyes shut, but they were already pushing out tears, hot trails creeping down his cheeks as his breath left him in a shaky rush. He stood there for several minutes, and was contemplating sitting down as the tears came faster, every inhalation sawing in his chest, when he heard a knock at the door.

Jolting in surprise at the foreign sound, he whipped around and stared through blurry eyes and equally blurry glasses at the source of it. The closed door yielded no answers. After a few moments, the sound repeated, a hesitant, dull tapping of knuckles against wood. Taking off his glasses, he quickly wiped his eyes before replacing them on his nose, and lurched to the entrance of his home, fingers hesitating as they clasped the cold doorknob. Some part of him already knew.

He only paused a moment, however, before turning the knob and pulling it open...and his infernal, faulty heart just about stopped. Standing on the top step, shoulders slumped, head bowed to hide his eyes, was the beautiful, perfectly imperfect, achingly familiar form of Takao, looking weary and so very down that Midorima actually fancied he could see his own personal dark cloud hanging above him.

There was something stuck in his throat; he couldn't speak, could barely breathe, and the shallow gasps he was managing weren't doing a lot as far as bringing oxygen to his brain. He had seen Takao, of course, almost every day in class and on the basketball court, but there was something very different about him showing up on his doorstep out of the blue like this.

Without raising his head, finally Takao spoke, "S-Shin-chan…" Midorima could have sunk to his knees at the tremulous, pleading tone of voice; he did feel his legs shake as they weakened.

"Wh-what are you doing here?" he managed, forcing his voice to sound curt, but it probably still carried an audible note of pain and longing.

Takao's whole torso seemed to lift as he took a deep breath, and he finally looked up. Something immediately stabbed Midorima in the chest, to meet those pale silver eyes, but it only took him a second to see that they were swimming with tears, and just as reddened and sleepless as his own.

"I-I'm sorry, Shin-chan, I'm so sorry!" the other man sobbed, covering his face with his hands as another wave of tears broke out, "I...I p-pushed you away when you were just...just being _you_ and I love you and...and I m-miss you so much…" He gulped a breath and broke down again, crying like a baby right there on Midorima's porch in broad daylight.

Midorima swallowed, trying not to look like he was clinging to the doorknob for dear life, "Takao…" he began, but he was interrupted before he could get anything else out.

"I miss walking with you e-even when it's pitch black out by the time we get home, I miss...talking to you and s-sleeping beside you, and _God_ I miss kissing you…" He lowered his hands slowly and Midorima thought he glimpsed a rueful, watery smile, "S-sixteen times in a row except on Wednesdays and days when Cancer's rank is low…"

"What...about you and…" it was difficult to keep his voice steady, but Midorima pressed on, "...that girl?"

Takao's shoulders shook in what could have been a laugh or a sob, and when he spoke his words came in a stammering rush, almost babbling, "I was stupid, s-so...so stupid, I th-thought I could make myself forget and move on but I couldn't stop _thinking_ about you and I wouldn't even let her touch me after a while b-because when she did I wanted to scream or throw up or _something_ and…" he looked at Midorima with the desperation of a drowning man, sniffling pathetically, his dark, silky hair a mess, sticking to his wet cheeks, "...A-and I know I don't deserve your forgiveness, but...but I love _you,_ and I can't...I can't keep pretending I don't."

Midorima stiffened, "Say that again."

Takao blinked once, perfect lashes spiked with moisture clinging to each other, "I love you."

"No, like before."

"I love _you, _Shin-chan."

"Again,"

"I love… Dammit, come here," Staggering a step forward, he fisted a hand in Midorima's hair and pulled his head down, their lips crashing together with a burning, ravaging need that left no room for perfection. And Midorima kissed just as fiercely, just as messily, fingers digging into Takao's shoulder blades as if he would never let him go. His glasses were dislodged from his nose in the frenzy and jammed awkwardly between their noses, but neither noticed or cared, tongues and teeth reuniting like old lovers and wrestling for control that both had abandoned. Midorima tasted the salt of tears, and drank it down with Takao's wonderfully unique flavor, tracing the soft, curving _M_ of his upper lip with his tongue before drawing away to a muffled protest.

"I love you too," he panted, straightening his glasses and gazing at those flawless, still-damp cheeks, painted with a flush of color that somehow made them more beautiful...and traced a path up until his eyes met narrow, glazed silver ones.

And the corner of Takao's mouth lifted in the small smirk that had already replayed in Midorima's head eighty-two times today, "Say that again," he echoed breathlessly.

Midorima cuffed him unseriously over the head, "First come inside before we draw a crowd," he grumbled, taking a reluctant few steps back, not wanting to look away from him, "And don't forget to take your shoes off _before_ your jacket, and tuck the laces in."

Takao's smirk widened, lips stretched tight with amusement and genuine joy, and he hastened to obey, "Should I have the rest of my clothes off before I get to the bedroom?"

"Naturally," Midorima threw over his shoulder, an answering smile crossing his face as the day's horoscope came rushing back all of the sudden...everything was falling into place. "After all, my compatibility with Scorpio is very good today."

**The True End**

_((Much shorter than the first part, but I've been told it was cruel of me to end it on such a sad note, and well...maybe I agree. Or maybe I just couldn't get a tearfully apologetic Takao out of my head. Either way, never let it be said I'm not here to please the readers._

_-Shinsun))_


End file.
